Jack pays no heed to the housekeeper’s lack of welcome, instead he stumbles over his greeting to Gwen, who is sitting at the side of the table, her bandaged foot resting on a chair. She waves away his concerned enquiries.

‘It’s fine … absolutely fine. It doesn’t even hurt much. I wish you’d have let me help with the milking, Dad. It would have been no trouble – I’d have been sitting down anyway, for goodness’ sake!’

‘Sitting down to milk, but then you have to carry the pail to the scales and the cooler, then walk back to do the next cow … and what if one of my feisty ladies takes a hoof to you? No, you’ll do as Muriel says and keep that leg up until the swelling’s gone down.’

‘I hate being idle.’ She stretches across the table to pour ha’penny-coloured tea into the waiting mugs.

‘Then you can help with my accounts. God knows I could do with some assistance in that department.’

After breakfast, Jim instructs Jack on how to clean out the parlour so it is ready for the afternoon’s milking. Once he has convinced the farmer he can manage alone, he sets about shovelling dung from the shallow gutters that run behind the stalls, loading it into the barrow before wheeling it out across the yard and down the far side of the buildings. He guides its wobbling wheel along the wooden plank set against the pungent midden and upends it at the top.

When the milking parlour is clear of muck, he fills large buckets from the outside pump, working the heavy handle until water whooshes from its wrought-iron mouth. Taking a bucket in each hand he staggers back, the muscles in his neck standing proud as he strains under their combined weight. He sluices the floor one bucket at a time, sweeping through the swilled water with a hard-bristled broom until he fancies the stone practically gleams.

‘He’s giving you all the glamorous jobs, I see,’ Gwen says as Jack ushers the last of the lying water out into the yard. She stands just beyond the door, her swollen foot cocked behind her, while she rests upon an upturned broom, its head – covered with a towel – tucked in her armpit.

‘Impromptu crutch,’ she explains with a wry smile. ‘Muriel’s idea.’

Jack finds her grin infectious. ‘Very fetching.’

‘How are you finding it?’

‘It’s proper graft … but I don’t mind that.’

‘Well, there’s a pot of tea made up at the house. Dad usually comes in for one about now.’

‘Fair enough, I’ll just finish up here.’